Night of the Hawk

by Vonna Harper

  The backs of her knees came in contact with something and nearly caused her to lose her balance. She tried to slide around whatever it was. She was still searching for its end when he reached out. His fingers closed around her upper arms.

  Violently twisting to the side freed one arm, but he easily spun her around so her back was to him. An instant later, he’d shoved her face-first onto the ottoman. She was now on her knees with her upper body pressed against the fabric and his hands splayed over her shoulder blades. Kicking her legs apart, he stepped into the space he’d created.

  “There’s no escape in here.” His voice was low and drum-like, not quite human. “This is my space, my den.”

  Den, not home? Alarmed, she willed herself not to fight. The smell of whatever fabric covered the ottoman was somehow calming.

  “There’s no longer a reason for you to be gagged. My nearest neighbors are nearly a mile away, and even if they’re home, the trees will muffle any sound you make.”

  And those neighbors are on your side, aren’t they? she wanted to throw at him. They’ll condone whatever you do. Hell, they’ll probably help.

  Stopped by the question of what Hawk had in mind, she blinked back tears, but even with helplessness pressing all around her, she remained acutely aware of his legs against hers and his hands on her back. He could, if he wanted, run his fingers over her ass until she couldn’t think of anything else. Even with her jeans standing guard over her sex, the right amount of pressure in the right place on his part would break her down.

  Too much, too much. If, somehow, she had a hint of how today would turn out, she might not feel quite so in over her head, but damn it, nothing in her life had prepared her for this.

  The feel of his fingers at the back of her head, followed by a slackening of the pressure on the corners of her mouth, told her he’d untied her gag. As long as silence had been forced on her, she’d been spared from trying to communicate with him. Now, however, a certain anonymity had been stripped away. It was back to man and woman.

  She was still trying to come to grips with the change and new demands that had been forced on her when he reached under her belly. An instant later she realized he’d pushed the waist rope aside and was unfastening her jeans.

  “Don’t,” she begged. “Please don’t rape me.”

  “It’ll never be that.”

  Confusion and maybe relief rendered her speechless. She was still trying to come to grips with what he’d told her as he started tugging her jeans off her hips. Although she tried to press herself into the ottoman, he had no trouble dragging the garment down to her knees. Instead of sliding out from between her legs and finishing the job, he hauled her to her feet and released her.

  Gathering herself, she faced him. The confining denim circling her knees forced her to move slowly and deliberately, and yet she noted the wealth of wildlife pictures adorning his walls. The room seemed to be filled with living things, and she longed for the time to study the photographs.

  His boots, in contrast to her shoeless state, accentuated the height difference between them, but that was nothing compared to the impact of her bound wrists and hobbled legs. He’d said he wouldn’t rape her; she had to believe him.

  And deal with her awareness of her skin.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “I have no choice.”

  Shaking her head did nothing to clear her confusion. She was truly and completely in this man’s world, wasn’t she? That’s what kept running through her mind; she’d stepped into his universe.

  Last night she’d pressed her body against his and screamed out a climax that had said everything about physical satisfaction. The time she’d spent in his arms and under him seemed a lifetime ago, and yet looking up at him brought it all back. She’d never felt anything like this for another man, never! No one had ever invaded her personal space in this way, and she didn’t know how to handle it.

  Or if she wanted to.

  Maybe she simply wanted to experience.

  No, damn it! You aren’t some damn slut—or his sex slave.

  The moment she labeled herself his sex slave, she rejected the notion. The last thing he needed was to bend a woman to his sexual will. Quite the opposite: he was more likely to be pursued by lusty females.

  Then what was this about?

  An image blipped to life, and she recalled how he’d concentrated on what he’d found on her desk. “What did it?” she pressed. “How did it come to be like this between us? Something you read?”

  “What?”

  She’d seen that look on a fox when she’d written a piece about a wildlife rehabilitation facility. In preparation for her article, she’d accompanied a staff member when he’d taken a fox into the wild to be released after its broken leg had healed. For nearly a minute after its carrying-cage door had been opened, the fox had stared out uncomprehendingly at freedom. Then the call of the wild had reached it, and it had raced away. Mato Hawk didn’t fully comprehend her question any more than the fox had comprehended freedom—or maybe it was this moment in time he couldn’t fully accept.

  “Which was it?” she pressed. “The 1824 diary entry about that wolf bounty hunter with his throat torn out? I came across that in the state historic society, in case you’re interested. I had to wade through a dozen old family diaries that had been donated to the society before I found that. The writer said he was there when the body was found, so…”

  What was going on inside Hawk? Whatever it was, the intensity in his stare silenced her. There was no need to tell him that wolves had once roamed this area but had been wiped out, surely he knew that. Neither did she want to quote what had been written about the condition of the bounty hunter’s throat or the look of horror in his eyes.

  “Why?” he asked after a long silence, “did you go looking?”

  Maybe she should explain a reporter’s curiosity about this area in the wake of Flann Castetter’s disappearance and how a small newspaper article about a cougar maybe killing a man suspected of starting a forest fire a few years ago had turned curiosity into obsession, but she didn’t.

  “I did,” she said instead. “Why do you care?”

  “Because I have no choice.”

  Some day, when all this was over, she’d incorporate Mato into an article, and the power of the words she used to describe him would garner her several awards. When people asked what had been the inspiration for her eloquence, she’d smile a mysterious smile and—

  Oh, shit, he was coming toward her again.

  “You don’t want to do this! Call it a mistake and untie me, and I’ll—”

  Her immobilized arms, she’d already realized, provided him the perfect way to propel her wherever he wanted. Despite her stupid attempt to struggle, he effortlessly dragged her over to the couch and dumped her belly-down onto it. The rich aroma of leather spread through her, and she couldn’t help but notice how comfortable it was. She lay flat with no curvature to her spine. If he put a pillow under her head, she might fall asleep.

  Sleep? What in hell was she thinking?

  The couch height gave her a clear view of his thighs. If she had the courage, she could see more than that part of his anatomy. Instead, tense, she awaited his next move. And she made no attempt to pick up the threads of a conversation that hadn’t been going anywhere. Instead she would concentrate on his every move, try to anticipate what he intended to do next. And if he started to slit her throat—

  No! He wasn’t a vengeful wolf.

  Was he?

  In the half instant before he touched the backs of her thighs, her thoughts locked on his last name. Then sensation shot through her and wrenched a gasp from her. Dismissing everything she’d told herself about the comfortable couch and a nap, she struggled to sit up.

  Of course it took nothing more than pressure on the small of her back to end that insane attempt. And as soon as he’d made his message clear and she’d forced herself to stop resisting, he went back to trailing his finger
tips over the sensitive flesh between buttocks and knees. She couldn’t say he was tickling her, because he kept the pressure just strong enough that she felt his touch all the way to her leg bones—and elsewhere.

  Over and over again he laid claim to her flesh there. Not sure how long she could keep from losing her mind, she struggled to think of something, anything except his fingers. Unfortunately the only other thought to reach her was about a bounty hunter who’d known he was going to die and that his death would be at the fangs of the very creature he’d set about to destroy.

  Except for that thought, only Mato existed.

  She’d never wanted to be a man’s possession, but that’s what she’d become, wasn’t it? A man who had too many of his namesake’s characteristics.

  More than the backs of her legs was being touched. Maybe not touched in the literal sense, but there was no denying the hot pinpricks of sensation throughout her pussy. She should tamp it down somehow, kill the heat, tighten her inner muscles and curse. But her body had been designed to celebrate this attack.

  Unable to remain still, she rocked from side to side. Her toes dug into the couch, and she’d chewed on the leather before she’d known she was going to. When he pulled her jeans off, she rolled over as far as she could and looked up at him through heavily lidded eyes.

  How beautiful he was, raw and masculine, his features darker than she remembered, and his hair like midnight. His intense gaze made her breath quicken, and she should have been afraid, but she was too deep into her body’s messages for that.

  When he drew her back down onto the couch, she was content to again study his legs. The flesh he touched was becoming more and more sensitive, desire and the need for respite warring with each other. Sanity said she shouldn’t allow him ready access to her legs, that her will was in danger of melting away. At the same time, the female animal inside her begged him to continue. Much longer, and she’d forget she’d once had another existence, but maybe it didn’t matter.

  Maybe only the two of them mattered.

  Then his fingers quieted, and she stopped breathing, wondering vaguely if she could start her lungs working again without him showing her how. Then he lifted his hands, and she sucked in a desperate and unbelieving breath, only to hold it again as he untied her hands. Pins and needles shot up her arms, making her gasp.

  He pulled her to a sitting position; then, as she rubbed one wrist, he leaned so close she instinctively flattened herself against the back of the couch. Why, she wondered, when his touches had brought her to life, did she crave space? He kept staring at her with an intensity that mirrored hers, his silence and stillness hammering at her until she thought she’d scream. Instead she pressed against his chest. Rather than backing off, he captured a wrist and snaked the rope he’d just taken off her around it.

  “Damn it, no!” she screamed, pounding him with her free hand.

  It did no good because scant seconds later, he’d lashed her wrists together again, this time in front of her. Not content with that, he fastened them to the waist rope so she couldn’t lift them off her body. Helplessness rose in a wave around her.

  Taking hold of her hair, he lifted her head. Once again he closed in on her space, and though it would take little to bury her knee in his crotch, she only returned his gaze.

  “Are you married?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “I need to know whether you live alone.”

  Damn him, he wanted to find out who would start looking for her and when. “Why would I tell you? After everything—”

  “I can get that information. I just don’t want to take the time. You aren’t wearing a ring, but that might not mean anything.” Still holding her hair, he cupped a hand under her chin. “What about your parents?”

  “Keep them out of this! Whatever you do, don’t involve them.” They’re going to say I screwed up royally.

  “I might not have a choice.”

  “Yes, you do.” Despite her attempt to keep terror under lock, it lapped at her. Though her parents had taught her from an early age to stand on her own two feet, she longed for their arms around her. “All right, all right! They aren’t expecting to hear from me any time soon.” She tried but only partly succeeded in taking a calming breath. “No one is.” It wasn’t the full truth, but close enough that her solitary existence weighed on her.

  He looked at her—nothing but looked—and yet she had no doubt he was seeing beneath her outer layers. She couldn’t be sure how deep he was going, but he was going much more than she wanted him to. And yet some part of her longed to open up to him, to tell him about the older brother who’d always expected her to keep up physically and mentally and cut her no slack, about the joy and satisfaction and sense of creativity her work gave her.

  And of her dreams of one day giving birth to her own children and holding them to her breast.

  “What about you?” she demanded when his stare became more than she could handle. “Does anyone else live here?”

  “No.”

  As many times as she turned the word around in her mind, she couldn’t find any emotion behind it. She was transparent while he kept everything inside. If that was the truth, she’d never survive their time together.

  Survive?

  Are you going to kill me? she needed to ask but couldn’t. Her only alternative was to live in the moment, to wait for him to reveal his plans for her, to touch her, to control…

  She’d forgotten that he’d taken hold of her chin, but when he turned her head to one side and then the other, she didn’t resist. Perhaps he found what he was looking for because before long he released her. Keeping as much distance as possible between them, she tried to comprehend why he was no longer touching her. Yes, her arms were as helpless as when he’d roped them behind her, and he’d closed her up in his house and stripped off her jeans. But this momentary freedom made it possible for her to pull herself back together a bit. Just because his caressing the backs of her legs had been exciting and erotic was no reason for her to run up the red flag of surrender. Even if she couldn’t keep his hands off her, she’d insulate herself against his impact.

  Damn him for treating her like a living lump of clay, a nympho.

  Once more his hands invaded her space as, using the ropes as a handle, he hauled her to her feet. She was going to try to twist away, she was! But when he pulled her against him and ran a hand over her buttocks, resistance slid off into a space she couldn’t find. Maybe, by turning contortionist, she could scratch and pinch, but her hands didn’t want to move. In truth, no part of her wanted to do anything except respond.

  Nympho? Was it all that simple?

  Hating both of them while at the same time slipping free and full into the moment, she locked her knees as his fingers and nails skimmed nylon. It was a touch, just a simple touch. Followed by another.

  He worked her relentlessly, never attempting to slide a finger under the fabric but managing to make her feel utterly invaded nonetheless. By turn he traced the elastic around one leg and then the other, and like the damnable fool she’d become, she kept her legs spread so he’d have easy access. Over and over again, his caresses bordered on tickling, only to take her deeper. Her skin had never been so sensitive or felt so alive. Instead of studying him as she absolutely needed to, she stared out the window at the trees and sky that should have reminded her of freedom but only emphasized her isolation.

  This was his home, his lair, and she was his prisoner. He, a predator, had captured his prey and hauled it in here to play with. Like a cat, he might grow tired of the game and kill her, but she didn’t believe that was her fate.

  As for what it was—

  Oh, shit, shit, he’d planted his hands against her belly and was pushing her back. She fell awkwardly onto the couch, her buttocks near the edge, and her upper body supported by her shoulders. A superhuman effort might bring her upright, but how could she concentrate on that, now that he’d run his forefinger under the panties crotch and was tug
ging on it, drawing her toward him.

  Her own weight kept her in place, but that didn’t explain her now widely splayed legs and the way her toes dug into the carpet, her fingers curling inward, mouth open. “Don’t, don’t,” she chanted, though she might crumble if he stopped.

  Still holding the cotton off her pussy, he slipped a forefinger into the space he’d created. She was going to die, absolutely die! The only way she could keep on living was by fighting him, by denying his impact, but she couldn’t begin to think how she might do either of those things. It was so much easier to let her head flop back and concentrate.

  Ah, what was that, his nail kissing her labia? Yes, oh, shit, yes. He understood her so damnably well, understood her need for a light touch interspersed with quick pressure. As long as he kept doing that, she was off balance and hovering on the brink of something that went far beyond a climax. Maybe, if they hadn’t had sex last night, he wouldn’t be giving her what she needed, but they had, and he was.

  Her eyes closed, dragged open, closed again. She kept curling and relaxing her fingers. No matter how many times she reminded herself that she couldn’t use her arms, she kept tugging at her bonds, not so she could resist but so she could touch as she was being touched.

  Such a simple touch, nothing more than feathery contact counterbalanced by pressure on her clit. She felt herself begin to flow, and the smell of her arousal killed the scent of leather and fine fabric. Even the aromas of pine and earth died.

  He was milking her; she couldn’t think of any other way to express what he was doing each time his finger slipped into her. It didn’t matter that he barely reached beneath her surface and stayed there just long enough to stop her breath. A trickle of arousal was becoming a flood. With it came a stripping away of her strength and the inability to open her eyes. He’d tossed her into a warm, slow-moving river and was helping her float down. Her muscles, what remained of them, tingled, and her breasts kept expanding until the press of her bra became painful. In blind reaction to the pressure, she rolled her upper body about, but either he didn’t know what was happening to her, or he didn’t care. Not bothering to study her naked expression, he continued to tug on her panties, leaving his other finger free to stimulate. To tease and dominate.